It's All Psychology to Me
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Sometimes, a few interactions is all it takes to get a sense for someone’s heart. And for our favorite characters and a certain Wendell Bray, they’re pretty much a requisite. Basically, shameless bonding.
1. Dr Jack Hodgins

A/N: Apparently I've been taken over by some _Bones_ muse or something, since, like my last _Bones_ story, I don't know where this came from. It does, however, also have my favorite intern in it, and I plan to have one of these chapters for each of the main characters. Anyway, any feedback's appreciated.

* * *

**It's All Psychology to Me**

_**Chapter I: Dr. Jack Hodgins

* * *

**_

"**I grew up on the streets, Dr. Hodgins. It doesn't take me long to get a feel for someone."**

When Wendell had first come up to him, Hodgins immediately felt annoyed, as he did with all of the interns so far that had made their rounds through the lab. Okay, so the guy seemed less creepy and sociopathic than the others, but that didn't mean jack squat. He was still an intern, a mere grad student, and Hodgins was still feeling the betrayal of Zack's; no, more the pain of losing his best friend. He constantly made fun of the guy, but that didn't mean he didn't care for him.

So when the twenty-something approached him, Hodgins really wasn't in the mood. And when Wendell had only stated he was going out with a bunch of girls, Hodgins felt like he had severely misjudged how much of a douche Wendell was. Like Hodgins wasn't having enough girl and general life problems—now this new guy had to rub it in.

Then Wendell threw a wrench in Hodgins's mental ranting. There he was, explaining his relationship with his "girl friends" (Hodgins doubted that's all Wendell and his friends were), when he proceeded to toss in the "Most of them are single" addendum. Hodgins turned to look at the young man shrewdly. Was he saying what Hodgins thought he was saying? He really thought _he_ could set up _Hodgins_? Well, he'd just crossed a line there.

Yet the guy continued, and Hodgins was beginning to think that maybe what he'd initially thought was simple callousness was actually backbone, enough to where he was willing to face the conspiracist's wrath. Wendell wasn't presenting his argument very well, having the gall to assume that he knew Hodgins, like a few cases with the Jeffersonian and FBI could really provide enough of an insight to all of their personalities. Hodgins prided himself on continually being a surprise, making people underestimate him. Worse still, the guy pulled a Booth and casually annexed a bit of himself, telling Hodgins he grew up on the streets, that it was a necessity for him to get a feel for people quickly. Hodgins of course instantly imagined the worst—in his line of work, that's usually what it was, anyhow—which was only fueled by the fact that he recalled Wendell had been raised in downtown Baltimore.

Dr. Brennan had chosen to hand out copies of the interns' files to her team purely as a heads up for anything, and although Hodgins had never really thought he'd need any of the information, he's reconsidering that now. Baltimore, Maryland was a tough city, up there with Chicago and St. Louis, and for a kid to get into med school from the alleys of that city was impressive. Naturally, it was only until Wendell finished his offer that Hodgins processed everything. Later, he'd say that the only reason he accepted the offer was because Wendell was buying, but at the moment, he was looking at the kid in a different way. Not that it stayed in the forefront of his mind for very long due to the urgency to identify some particulates, but it was there nonetheless.

Finally, the case with the bride from Hell finished, and everyone embraced with great happiness the evening they could go home, grab a beer or soda and not worry about catching a murderer, at least until the next morning. For his part, Hodgins was planning to just head back to his place, maybe get a little hammered or watch some movie, all the while trying to forget Zack's absence. Sounded like a pretty good plan to him.

He ended up being the last person out, save for Brennan, but he'd happened to catch Wendell shrug off his lab coat and walk out of the building with a relief that only came with reaching the conclusion of a difficult case. Though Hodgins at first just ignored it, another part of his mind hesitated. It wasn't like he really had anything important to do otherwise, it wasn't like he could snuggle up with Angela or something, and it wasn't like his colleagues were planning to get together to have dinner or something to just hang out.

Unable to come to a decision, Hodgins figured he'd just ruminate on it on his way home. The route he always took conveniently passed by the Founding Fathers bar, and he glanced in the window, to see Wendell sitting at a table, laughing with no fewer than four attractive women, and Hodgins could plainly see Wendell wasn't lying about it all.

He felt a quiet ring in his pocket, and pulled out his cell phone, only to have Angela's smiling face plastered on the screen, along with two options: Date or Hate. His finger hovered over the first option, before he smiled sadly to himself and exited out of the application. If he were going to ever get back together with Angela—and good God, he did want to—he wanted to do it right. Not by way of a program that turned out to be run by a murderer anyway.

So, swallowing whatever pride may have prevented him from doing it, Hodgins stepped out of the cold D.C. night and into the bar, heading towards Wendell's table. Upon hearing Hodgins enter, Wendell glanced up and greeted him with a wide grin, proffering his chair to the entomologist and grabbing another from the bar. It was an offhand gesture, a simple passing off of a seat to a senior colleague, but it was one Hodgins didn't fail to recognize, and he thought that was unusually respectful for most guys Wendell's age.

Hodgins gathered that Wendell must have told his friends about him, because none of them looked particularly surprised, but congenially introduced themselves to Hodgins, pleasantly saying Wendell had told them all so much about his internship at the lab, even about Hodgins. And despite the irrefutable fact that Hodgins had obviously fought with himself over the choice to join a junior grad student in what was veiled as a date set up, he found himself before too long having a good time.

For one, Wendell didn't seem to expect Hodgins to offer much of his own life, of any past events that were saved for friends and people he'd worked with for years and years. On the contrary, Wendell graciously allowed himself to be made fun of by his friends (whom Hodgins quickly deduced were not, in fact, involved with Wendell besides simple friendship) and share amusing, random stories about their various ventures with the young intern, of his life before coming to the Jeffersonian. Hodgins knew Wendell had had a colorful line of jobs, but hearing about them in slightly more depth and with greater abundance wasn't exactly unwelcomed.

The beers, fries, and minutes quickly racked up, and in spite of what Hodgins had preconceived, he wasn't really noticing the time. After only a few laughs and stories, Hodgins had forgotten about Wendell's stature of being below him on the occupational food chain, but rather accepted him as simply a guy he could—and was—grab a beer and hang out with, no expectations waiting to be met. Not that Hodgins was exactly prepared to consider Wendell a _friend_, per se, but he could definitely see himself working alongside the guy in the future. Certainly he was extremely less weird or uptight than the other interns that had studied under Brennan, a fact that Hodgins hadn't really thought about until now.

Eventually, and it had actually surprised him, it got to the point where the bar was closing, and most of the girls confessed they had work in the morning, which Wendell and Hodgins had to agree with as well. As the women filed out of the bar, a few of them handed him their numbers along with a smile, and Hodgins found he wouldn't mind going out with one or two of them; turned out, Wendell had been right about Hodgins having the opportunity to meet some great people.

And when Hodgins and Wendell stepped outside and ended up having to go opposite ways to get back to their homes, Wendell reverted to looking a little sheepish, like he was unsure as to whether Hodgins regretted going to the bar. So Hodgins held his hand out to the intern, who shook it with gratitude.

"Thanks, man," Hodgins said as they released the handshake. The exchange was short, but the meaning behind it was more. It was an acceptance that both Hodgins and Wendell acknowledged, one that Hodgins wasn't really the most generous about giving out. In all honesty, Hodgins had had a good time, had enjoyed himself on an evening where otherwise he'd probably be morosely back at his house, finishing up a few shots by himself. The kid had approached Hodgins without pretense, with courage to talk not about work with the hard-assed scientist, and Hodgins had to give him props for that.

As the two men turned and started to walk away from each other, both grew a self-satisfied smile. Hodgins was glad there was a good possibility that in the near future he'd be working with a new squint that wasn't a complete nutjob. Wendell was glad he hadn't been shot down in a public venue by a man that he knew was more than capable of shooting down people.

And both were glad Hodgins had given the guy a chance.


	2. Angela Montenegro

A/N: The second in this series takes place a few months from when Season 5 would start, but since I have no idea what they're going to be doing for that season, let's just pretend it's been much of the same, just the usual murder-banter-logic-solve cases. Also, if you have a preference as to which character you'd like to see next, let me know. That said: thanks for reading, there will be more to come, and any feedback's appreciated.

A/N part two: Regarding the "Why is this categorized under general _and_ angst?" anonymous comment I received, well, perhaps angst was a little much, but there will be some despondency in these chapters, so I'm just covering my bases with it. It's not much, though. Anyway, on with the story…

* * *

**It's All Psychology to Me**

_**Chapter II: Angela Montenegro

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**_

**"****I don't get you people. I'd like to work here, but it's like a minefield. Too many ways to step wrong."**

Most of her friends would try and tell her that it wasn't her fault; Wendell had only been an official member of their team for ten days, so how could she be expected to know something like his birthday, let alone know what to get him for a present? But Angela? Hell, no. She was the one who was supposed to be on top of things like this, things that Hodgins or Brennan would consider "frivolous." She _never_ forgot a birthday; they were pretty much right below Christmas. (And maybe Valentine's Day if she had a Valentine to be excited about.) Which was saying a lot, given her past with Christmases and cranking her ecstasy over the holiday up to eleven.

So as she looks at that pesky little detail—_December 3, 1985_—seemingly glaring evilly up at her from its paper enclosure, she glowers, her chin resting on her fist. It's not his age necessarily that's stumping her on the present front; after all, Zack was the same age and occupation a few years ago and she'd never had problems getting _him_ something. She always has great gifts for people, even for people like Booth, even back when she'd only known him for a month. He'd only done that gruff FBI thanking thing, but she'd seen the satisfaction in his eyes once he opened it, and that was gratifying. All of which made her think now—

"God _damn_ it!"

It's Hodgins who comes hurrying into her office, probably having been already on the way there, and he looks around like he'd expected there to be some blazing inferno threatening her life. He relaxes a little, though, upon seeing her office is just as quirky and unharmed as always.

"Ange?" he asks warily. It'd never boded well for him when she got in one of her very rare but very fiery bad moods. "What happened?"

"It's this stupid date," Angela curses, scowling at her former boyfriend.

"Thursday?" Hodgins inquires with a frown. He flips death-defyingly quickly through his mental rolodex of forget-and-die dates, passing Angela's and his once-anniversary, Mother's Day, the day Zack's to get out of the psych ward, and all the other occasions he's had to remember, but comes up blank on today's date.

"No," Angela snaps, looking up at him. "December 3rd."

Again, Hodgins is drawing a blank. And considering his thrice-doctorate mind, it's an impressive feat. "You're going to have to help me out there, Angela."

She huffs, like Hodgins should know what she's talking about, but concedes. "It's Wendell's birthday," she says, in a tone that resembles someone going to a firing squad.

"Oh," Hodgins says, still confused as to why Angela looks so upset. Mistaking it for Angela thinking he'd done something wrong, Hodgins continues awkwardly, "Well…I'll go tell the guy congrats…"

Angela stands up, however, stopping Hodgins from leaving. "Okay, a) you so _do_ need to tell him happy birthday," she scolds, and Hodgins mentally slaps himself for reminding Angela of that fact, "and b) that's not the issue here. The _issue_ is that I have no present for him."

Hodgins waits. But when Angela looks at him expectantly, signaling that was the end of her problem, Hodgins uncomfortably clears his throat. He doesn't get paid for things like this. He's got a _Ph._D., not a _Psy_.D. "Ange, I'm sure he's doing just fine," he hedges. "He's having a great time with Ms. Sternum Smithereens over there. Really. Time of his life."

Immediately, Hodgins is reminded of those times in his and Angela's relationship that he really didn't like much. The times where she scowled at him like he should know what's going through her mind at that exact moment. Many a time he'd tried to explain the difference between guys' and girls' brains—figuratively speaking, not anatomically accurate, of course—but Angela hadn't really grasped the concept. Obviously, that fact hadn't changed.

"Look, Hodgins, this type of thing is what I do," Angela bemoans. "I've got a knack for stuff like this. But for the life of me, I can't think of what to get him."

"Ange, he's only been here for like a week," Hodgins says gently. "I doubt he's expecting anything."

"Exactly!" Angela exclaims, so vehemently that Hodgins takes a step back. He's not really sure what to do with this stage of Angela—hasn't ever been. "Exactly. That's why it'd be even more special: because he's not expecting anything. I just—why can't I figure him out?"

Hodgins sighs, gestures for Angela to take her seat again, and himself sits down on the corner of her desk. Time to test out his touchy-feely advice. God help him. "None of us really know him," he says, surprising himself that anything he said was actually true.

The most anyone had spent with Wendell was probably Hodgins himself with that get-together Wendell had had a while back. Or maybe Booth with their hockey thing, but really, they had that saying, you go to a fight and a hockey game breaks out. Hodgins isn't huge on the sports front, but he's pretty sure there's not much _talking_ that goes on in the locker rooms or on the ice.

"Look," Hodgins continues, "You've got a big heart. It's got a lot of work to do, and maybe Wendell's just got to warm his way into its payroll. You're the best facial reconstructionist and friend in the country. You'll figure something out."

Angela's zeal visibly starts to simmer down, the conflagration in her dark eyes sating, and Hodgins, to be frank, is pretty damn shocked that something _he said_ calmed her down. And they weren't even having sex anymore. Maybe, Hodgins pondered curiously, he was better at this stuff than he'd thought. Or maybe he was just good at Angela and all of her many facets.

"You're right," Angela says softly. "I will figure it out. Somehow."

Hodgins wants to say something like "That's my girl," but Angela's not anymore, so instead, he somewhat sadly settles for a smile and patting her shoulder. He walks out of her office, and when he turns back around to look at her again, her back is already to him, her chin palmed as the cogs in her brain start to spin again. Shaking his head, Hodgins exits, with the intent to drown himself in particulates and slime.

* * *

Angela's almost given up as the clock reaches eleven. Most people had already gone home, and although as per usual, Brennan's team is still there, it doesn't make the fact that Angela has only that one lowly hour left to figure out what to get the young intern. Aside from a hug and a "Happy Birthday" to him, Angela's beat.

Nonetheless, she decides to take a walk around the lab, maybe get her head in the right place again. (Not to mention she has some paperwork to work on anyway.) She gives a halfhearted wave to Brennan, who's studiously examining a bone fragment; the lab is nearly completely quiet apart from some occasional typing of computer keys, so when she hears speaking once she reaches the stairs, she pauses. As she looks up, she sees the same person for whom she'd been unable to pick a gift, a cell phone up to his ear, him scrunched against the railing, like talking on the phone is contraband.

She really isn't one for eavesdropping—okay, maybe _sometimes_—but right now, she can't resist. Wendell hadn't spotted her anyway, so she merely takes a few steps further behind the stairwell, out of his sight but still able to see and hear him. Curiously, she notices his look of half-contentment, half-remorse, and focuses in on his words.

"Wait, the Ricky you're scared of? No way," Wendell is saying, the tone obviously indicating the someone on the other end of the line was in the middle of telling some amusing story. He halts for a second, Wendell's correspondent reacting to his doubt. "All right, all right, I'll give that one to you, Abby. Tell him—where do you have to go? Okay, well, I love you, sis."

Angela watches as Wendell flips the phone shut, that look of despondence that she'd seen while he was talking now in even more pronunciation. Her brow furrowed, she backs out of her spot and hurries back into her office, her mind whirring a million miles a minute.

It's there that she has a set-aside cabinet for her personal artistry cache, its contents the ones she only used for works she wanted preserved forever. Her most recent manifestation was a picture she'd given to Booth's son, Parker, for a Christmas gift; it'd been of all of them, Parker in the center, and he'd given Angela a hug and the bright toothy smile that only children can bestow. But now, Angela's firmly decided, it's time to break out the thick matte paper and charcoal once more. She clears off a space on her desk, and, her mind's eye flickering to life with exactly the image she wants, begins to draw.

It takes her well over an hour to compose her portrait, but when she's done, the edges of her hands and the joints of her fingers coated in black dust, she looks down at it with a certain amount of self-satisfaction. She'd previously toyed with using color in the picture, adding layers of pigment and hued emotion, but ended up choosing against it.

Because as she looks at the hard features of an adult mixed with the softness of an adolescent, blue eyes desaturated into shades of gray and evincing intelligence beyond years, and shaped mouth ready to either frown as its owner comes upon a problem or to a smile as its owner solves that problem, she's comfortable that she's captured its human counterpart. And as she looks to the figure beside him, the eleven-year-old's long curls the same opaque shade as her brother's, her face a content smile, her eyes shiny with joy as they stare up in wonder at the man next to her, Angela's certain she's not simply drawn the girl from a mental calculation of genetic traits also attributed to her brother. Rather, a hypostatization of all the traits that she'd had to witness throughout the weeks she's worked with him, a conjoiner of his best attributes she'd been privy to.

Her assurance can't be quantified into a statistic Hodgins or Zack could read, but Angela can see now, in her own coarse and smooth pencil strokes, that she's just drawn Wendell and his little sister, the latter of whom she's never met before. And yet…she wouldn't be surprised if, were she to ever see Abygail Bray, she'd bear a resemblance to the girl on the paper. It's not Angela's mild ego talking, either, but her feelings, all those things that Brennan put no stock in but Angela knows to be true.

She doesn't put her name on the picture, choosing to leave it anonymous and unblemished as she sets it by Wendell's leftover belongings, but the next day when she shows up to work, there's a simple Post-It note left on her desk, reading:

_Thanks._

And Angela smiles.


	3. Dr Camille Saroyan

A/N: This is kind of a tag to an offhand reference Wendell made in "Fire in the Ice," and takes place, coincidentally, a little after my other story, "Five For the Deadline." Small disclaimer: I'm kind of taking liberties with the severity of the charge, but just go with it. Also, again, if you have a preference let me know who you want to come next.

* * *

**It's All Psychology to Me**

_**Chapter III: Dr. Camille Saroyan

* * *

**_

"**Last time I did this, I ended up in juvie hall over the weekend."**

"Dr. Saroyan? You wanted to see me?" Wendell asks, stepping into Cam's office, and looking appropriately like any young employee would upon being called into their boss's domain.

Cam gestures to the seat on the other side of her desk, and Wendell obeys. "I'm sure by now, Dr. Brennan has informed you of her decision to have you join her team," Cam starts, remembering with a mental grin Brennan coming into her office like a hurricane, curtly telling—not inquiring, telling—Cam that she was going to hire Wendell, just wanted her to know, now she's got to go identify some bones.

Wendell can't help the smallest of mouth twitches as he affirms, "Yes, Dr. Saroyan," and Cam can't exactly blame him. It was practically a three-ring circus and a show at Sea World that one had to perform in to get on Brennan's good graces.

"I think she made the right choice," Cam says, truthfully, and Wendell's twitch turns into an actual, yet still small, smile.

It starts to fade, though, as he continues looking at Cam, whose expression turned a little less congenial. "But?" he questions, anticipating her contingency.

"But there's something I'd like to clear up before I employ you," she replies. At Wendell's face of confusion, she grabs a piece of paper off her desk and puts it towards him. He looks down, and immediately his expression droops, his mood instantly in the sewers as he stares upon that mug shot and three lines bearing:

_Breaking and Entering  
Counts: 1  
Date: 5/18/2002_

Wendell looks up at Cam, his face now neutral, and pushes the paper back to her. "I was seventeen," he answers, somewhat unnecessarily. "I wasn't tried as an adult; and they dropped the charges."

"Unfortunately, as this record wasn't sealed—something to do with system revamping—I have to check into it," Cam says, genuinely apologetic. It doesn't make it any less true—the Jeffersonian was pretty much a stickler for clean records, even if they were just juvenile hall accusations—but Cam's still remorseful. "Wendell, you're a good kid, but I have to ask."

Wendell sighs, waits a few beats, and then finally nods. "It was just a stupid prank…"

"_How the hell do you leave your wallet?" a seventeen-year-old Wendell hisses, punching his friend in the shoulder. "Only you could be so damn careless, Derek."_

_Derek turns around, scowling. "Hey, I was busy," he says by way of excuse._

"_Yeah, _tagging_," Wendell retorts, rummaging through a desk angrily. "And Jesus, would you scrub harder? That paint's not going to erase itself."_

_Derek pauses in his scrubbing of the wall to look at Wendell, still perturbed, more so, Wendell thinks, because he's commanded his friend to erase his "artwork." "First of all, that's a piece of genius right there," he says, acting as though his spray-painted cannabis on the wall of the principal's dining room was some kind of Rembrandt. "And second of all," Derek hesitates for a minute, but then relents, "that guy's an asshole. He deserves defacement. And how was I supposed to know I'd leave something here?"_

_Wendell rolls his eyes. "Maybe you shouldn't go gallivanting through someone else's house then," he snaps, moving on to searching through a bureau. "Or, you know, dragging me along with you."_

"_If you recall," Derek begins snarkily, "I spotted you those sixty bucks a week ago. You so owe me, dude."_

"_That was to apply for undergrad med school!" Wendell exclaims, remembering his own inability to pay for a college application at that time and having to borrow money from his friend. _

_Then, Derek had been more than happy to do so, joking that Wendell had to pay him back with interest once he became some famous cardiologist or something. (Wendell told him he wasn't going to be a cardiologist. He was going to be a forensic anthropologist, thanks very much.) Evidently, Wendell muses angrily, Derek had changed his mind and resorted to commandeering him to break into Principal Seth Harley's—who had, Derek swore, it out for him—house to retrieve the belonging he'd forgotten. According to Derek's story, he'd already snuck into Harley's house to vandalize the front room with, in Wendell's opinion, a completely juvenile (plus, totally uncreative) image, and somehow had left behind his wallet. Wendell was beginning to question his loyalties._

"_Whatever," Derek replies pedestrianly. "Just keep looking. I'm so ruined if he finds this."_

_Wendell grinds his teeth, dropping to the floor and reaching underneath a bookcase. His hand touches a leather something, and he brings it out, to discover an item he's familiar with. He chucks it at Derek, and hisses, "Consider your ruined ass saved."_

_Derek grins, putting the wallet back in his jeans pocket, and begins to say something, before the overhead lights flash on, and a gruff voice commands, "Freeze. Hands up. You're under arrest for breaking and entering."_

_Wendell does as he's told, and looks to his right where Derek had been, only to see that his friend—and holy hell, but Wendell's _so_ rethinking that moniker—hiding in the shadows behind the mantelpiece, out of sight of the cops. Surreptitiously, he then turns his eyes to the wall in front of which Derek had been standing, and mentally gave a little sigh of relief to see that the pot leaf had been virtually completely scrubbed off. Not that he was _happy_ with being arrested—hell no—but one charge was better than two. A bright, yet very dim, silver lining, he supposes._

"_Come on, kid," says the second cop, the younger and slightly more sympathetic-looking one, as he manhandles Wendell forward._

"_Fuck you, Derek," Wendell curses under his breath, wondering how in the world he ever got himself in these situations. And, more sadly, that he was probably going to be kissing that hundred thousand dollar scholarship from the University of Maryland Baltimore goodbye._

_The only other consolation he can think of is that he's still a minor for the next seven months, and so can__'__t be charged to the full extent of the law. Unless, of course, they decided to try him as an adult, but he isn't going to think that pessimistically. Not, at least, until he know exactly how far they choose to take this._

_Before his smarter-than-normal brain can really completely process what's going on, he's being pushed out of the police cruiser and into a building labeled, as he looks up sullenly, "Baltimore City Juvenile Justice Center." They tell him to stand in front of a height chart and flash a camera that temporarily blinds him, before shoving him in a cell. He's strip searched, and although he's not put in a jumpsuit or anything, he figures it's just because they haven't hashed out all the details of his charging and circumstances and whatnot. Wonders if he gets a phone call, or if he does, who _would_ he call? Under normal conditions, it'd probably be Derek, but, Wendell fumes silently, the guy had given him up, so he sincerely doubts Derek would bail him out or something. It's not like he had parents to do so, either…he can't get rid of the pathetic feeling that he has to actually _think_ of someone to call._

_He takes to balling up one of his socks and tossing it up in the air and catching it again, simultaneously reciting different bones and their relative positions in the body. It__'s__ a method of calming him down that he'd discovered when he'd occasionally get stressed about an upcoming test or paper or the like, and it annoys Derek, who__'s__ a solid C minus student, but it works for Wendell._

"_Medial malleolus: rounded process of the tibia forming internal surface of the ankle joint. Anterior sacrococcygeal ligament: containing fibers that descend from anterior surface of the sacrum to the front of the coccyx and blending with the periosteum," he enumerates, his eyes closed as he pictures the skeletal system._

_The way Wendell's adrenaline and norepinephrine are pumping through his blood, he knows there's no way he'll be getting any sleep tonight, and so he instead resigns himself to lying on the might-as-well-be-made-of-stone bed and pretending that he's _not_ in what's virtually prison, as well as quench the homicidal thoughts he's harboring. They'll do no good to him, and if there's one thing Wendell prides himself on, it's his ability to keep his head in any circumstance. Right now, he's thinking that's pretty much key.

* * *

Four hours later finds Wendell in the same position. Halfway through the definition of the lateral epicondyle, he's startled when he hears a gravelly voice coming a few feet from his right, and jolts upright. "The hell are you muttering?" the man asks, and from the way he's dressed, Wendell guesses he's a security guard._

"_They're components of the humanoid skeleton," Wendell answers promptly. The guard stares intently at him, and Wendell adds, "Sir."_

"_No never mind to me," says the guard, proceeding to bring out a large keychain filled to overcapacity with different shapes and sizes of keys, and sticks one of them in the latch of Wendell's cell, twisting it until the unmistakable sound of it unlocking is heard._

_Wendell frowns, standing up. "What's going on?" he inquires, thinking the worst despite his previous self-coaching that he'd remain neutral._

"_Charges were dropped, kid," says the guard, walking into the cell and pushing Wendell out of it by the shoulder blades, rather painfully in Wendell's opinion._

"_What?"_

_The guard grunts, like Wendell's the bane of his existence, but explains as he leads Wendell down the hallway that leads away from the more undesirable parts of the detention center. "I don't know," the guard replies, though from the clipped tone, Wendell can't tell whether he's being truthful or just wants Wendell to shut up._

_Wendell does, though, if anything than because he thinks there's a good chance that arguing with the security personnel, especially when you're just tentatively off the hook, is kind of a no-no. So Wendell allows the man to walk him out of the hallway and into the "lobby" (it's too nice of a word, he reflects cynically, but "antechamber" would be a little harsh), where he's instructed to speak with the person on duty there._

"_Sign here," the woman says, not completely without nicety._

_He takes the ballpoint from her and sloppily pens his signature, handing her back the form. Hesitantly, but knowing it will sate his curiosity, he questions, "What happened?"_

_He doesn't know if it's the rules to inform the discharges why they were being released if they weren't aware, but the woman answers him anyway. "Mr. Harley saw who was charged, and decided it must have been a mistake," she says. Wendell raises his eyebrows, and the woman smiles. "You're not a bad kid, Wendell. Stay out of trouble."_

_Wendell books it out of there as quickly as he can without looking suspicious, asking the driver—for, even though Wendell was released, because no one was there to pick him up he was required to have someone take him home—to drop him off a block away from where he lived. His neighborhood and friends already had enough problems on their plates without having to look at Wendell like a criminal. And, trust him, Wendell had learned his lesson: next time someone asks him to retrieve their wallet, his answer will be a firm "Hell no." True to his word, since then Wendell's not so much as glared at by persons of authority or importance._

"I'm sorry, Dr. Saroyan," says Wendell, coming out of his dissemination. He's about to leave it there, leave Cam to come to her own conclusions, before he straightens in his chair and sets his face. "But with all due respect, I think that if Dr. Brennan can disregard one night in juvie seven years ago, you should, too."

Cam manages to look affronted for a few seconds, but then she caves and affords Wendell a small smile, quite possibly more irritated with the red tape that the institution had presented her with than Wendell was. Because Wendell was absolutely right. "Well, you wouldn't be a true member of Dr. Brennan's team if you didn't have backbone," she says with a chuckle. Wendell cocks his head in expectancy, and Cam holds out her hand. "Welcome to the Jeffersonian, Mr. Bray."

Wendell smiles and returns her handshake. "About the juvie—"

Cam shakes her head, grabs the paper, and rips it in two. Conspiratorially, she confides, "After all, who here hasn't skirted the law a little?"


	4. Special Agent Seeley Booth

A/N: Time-wise, I'm going to put this around during and before the beginning of "Fire in the Ice," and I'm taking total creative license with Booth's team, given that we weren't privy to any details. Anyway, any feedback's appreciated.

* * *

**It's All Psychology to Me**

_**Chapter IV: Special Agent Seeley Booth

* * *

**_

"**Get up. You all right?"**  
"**Did I score, man?"**  
"**Oh, yeah. Yeah, come on."**

A full hockey team and games weren't supposed to come to fruition. It had just been an offhand suggestion by, of all people, his son, when they'd been sitting at home once, casually watching an Avalanche versus Devils game back in '08. Parker thought his daddy should do something for kicks, thought pucks, sticks, and skates were much more fun than catching bad guys. Booth had laughed it off, telling Parker "we'll see," like parents did when they wanted a particular thread of conversation to end.

But, after he'd put Parker to bed, the suggestion had come back to him. As he watched Forsberg slapshot the puck past Brodeur to thundering applause by half the stadium, he imagined getting together some of the few squints that were athletic, as well as some men at the FBI (himself, too, obviously) if they wanted to, and having their own version of the NHL (okay, maybe the AHL). He was already aware of a couple pick-up game hockey teams made up of various corporations near to where the FBI and Jeffersonian buildings were, had heard of their competitions.

It hadn't taken long for the idea to catch on, and within a few days of putting out the word, Booth had a full team, some of them squints, which was surprising, but they were all pretty satisfactory in terms of skill. In fact, the "Fed Cases" (as they'd dubbed themselves) quickly got a reputation for doing well, and although it was all still amateur hockey, and it wasn't like they had a sellout audience, they still garnered a fair amount of people per game. Booth had noticed that in particular, Cam, Sweets (who knew?), and Angela usually showed up; Brennan hadn't been to one before, and honestly, Booth didn't expect her to. Seeing her at a sports event would be like…him being at an isotopic microparticles symposium or something.

Unfortunately, they had eventually lost their best left wing due to the physicist's job relocation, and while Booth did have a second stringer, the guy wasn't much of a Robitaille, to be sure. There'd been a couple of guys that had expressed interest in filling that spot, but, after testing them out in some scrimmages, Booth didn't really see them as a benefit. In fact, he was beginning to resign himself to elevating his second-stringer and have one of the centers switch between that and left wing if he needed to substitute.

That changed, however, one day when he'd gone down to the ice rink to practice by himself for a little, in preparation for a game that next weekend. He'd anticipated the arena to be empty, given the hour of night, so when he walked in, skates laced up, he was surprised to find someone already on the ice. The guy didn't have the best of hockey gear, his stick an older Easton, electrical tape holding in some splinters, and his skates scuffed and worn, but as Booth watched, the lackluster equipment didn't seem to faze him.

It took the man a few plays and goals to realize that there was someone else there, and immediately he skidded to a stop by the edge of the rink, looking awkward. There was something familiar about the guy, and it took a second for Booth to recognize him as being the latest in Brennan's long line of grad students.

"Agent Booth," he—Wendell, Booth remembered, impressed with himself—said, reaching down to pick up the puck from the ice. "You play?"

The irony didn't escape him, and Booth chuckled. "Yeah, kid, I play," he answered, and then gestured to Wendell. "You're pretty good. Ever thought of playing for our team? Still need a left winger, if you want to try it out."

Wendell gave Booth a self-deprecating smile, and with any of the other grad students, Booth would be internally laughing more, but at the moment, he was more occupied with realizing that there was actually a squint associated with Brennan out there that was edging towards, dare he say it? normal. Moreover, a grad student that played _hockey_, an _actual_ sport. None of that flimsy lacrosse—or, God forbid, racquetball—business that he'd heard some of them indulged in.

"You want me to play on your hockey team?" Wendell asked, eyebrows raised as he almost visibly processed this fact.

"Hey, you look better than who we've got now as our winger," Booth said, thinking of the second stringer and his gangliness. He nodded toward the ice and offered, "How about some one-on-one? Never hurts to have an opponent in a friendly."

"I don't know," Wendell hesitates, glancing back at the rink. "I've still got some dissertation work I have to do—"

Booth steered Wendell's shoulders around, and tossed the puck onto the ice, where it slid a few yards before stopping. "Come on," Booth suggested, shrugging off his outer coat and picking up his own stick from the ground. "It'd be nice to find out there's one of Bones's interns that's actually, you know, human."

Wendell laughs, and then nods in resignation. "All right," he agrees, seemingly getting used to the reality that Booth, a senior FBI agent who in general dislikes squints, was asking him, a squint-in-training, to be part of his hockey team.

It was a learning experience for Booth, that scrimmage with Wendell. At first, it appeared the guy was holding back, unsure of himself now that he was facing off against Brennan's partner, but after a couple plays, Booth felt like he was getting his metaphorical money's worth. It didn't take long for Booth to figure it out.

The kid had _skill_.

Okay, so it wasn't like Wendell was Wayne Gretzky's protégé or anything, but in comparison with some of the other first stringers, and definitely second stringers, that Booth had, he was pretty damn good. He hadn't had a run with the rest of the team yet, but if their one-on-one was any indication, Booth felt he would fit in pretty well with the other guys. Wendell was at least a good ten or more years younger than the rest of Booth's players, but even in the NHL, younger players tended to be favored, as long as they possessed the necessary talent.

Both Wendell and Booth were sweating profusely by the time they unanimously agreed to end the scrimmage, but what were sports without a little sweat, let alone a smattering of blood and tears? They sat side by side unlacing their skates and tapping the residual ice from the blades, for the scrimmage and that moment not an FBI guy and a twenty-three-year-old student, but rather just two guys playing a pick-up hockey game and having a great time. And Booth wasn't so prideful to deny that Wendell had proven to be a worthy adversary. (But prideful enough to say he was still better. Of course.)

"You got game," Booth said, standing up and handing over Wendell's stick and puck. "The jersey's yours if you want it."

Wendell grinned, and after a few seconds and shaking the sweat and ice pieces from his hair, nodded. "Okay," he said simply.

"Practice is on Friday, game's Saturday. Better be ready," Booth relayed, patting Wendell's shoulder before picking up his own gear and walking out of the stadium.

* * *

**Final Score:**

**Firedawgs 3 – 5 Fed Cases**

When Wendell showed up for his first practice, Booth hadn't failed to notice the somewhat crestfallen look on his second stringer's face when he gave the starting lineup, Wendell to the left of Booth, and the second stringer back to the bench. Wendell had looked a little out of sorts at first, but once they got playing, it was just like their scrimmage had been; after a little bit, Wendell warmed up to it all. Though he made mostly assists, he did score two goals, once of them a ricochet off of the goalpost, and as Booth had suspected, the other players on the team didn't have any problem with their new left wing. A few jabs and sarcastic remarks, but nevertheless it appeared that Wendell's disposition was pretty amiable, once you got the guy to open up a little.

Come Saturday, it was to be Booth's team versus their rivals (or as rivaling as an amateur "league" could be), and once Wendell found this out, his confidence somewhat leached out of him. Booth wasn't—and isn't—one for the huge, intense pep talks that bring up a man from pure desolation to elation, and so he started to get a little nervous at seeing Wendell as such, willing God that his new left-winger, who'd had so much potential, wouldn't lose that confidence and ability.

Thankfully, _someone_ was looking out for Booth and his team, for after a slightly rocky start for the first few minutes, Wendell picked up his game. Which was luckier still, given that this was the one (_of course it'd be_) that Brennan had decided to come out for, and while Booth didn't have the biggest ego in the world, it's not like he really wanted to have it crushed to irredeemable parts either. Booth wondered if it was this fact that ended up cementing Wendell's will or something, because once he caught sight of the cheering audience of three that he had, he seemed to gain a spring in his step. So to speak, anyway.

The game didn't go as smoothly as Booth had hoped, all because of that damn Carlson, who'd not only been a complete asshole throughout the entire game, but given Wendell a pretty nasty concussion and sprained wrist to boot. Wendell had been pretty impressive, even in covering up his injuries, but it wasn't that that made Booth really look at the guy in a different light.

The game finally ended, Booth and his team trudge across the scraped ice and into the locker room, groaning and peeling off jerseys and long johns to reveal bruises and scratches and sweat-drenched hair, all of which they'd had too much pride to complain about before. Booth is the last one into the room, picking up some stray gloves and even a mouthpiece that one or two of his players had left behind.

Most of the guys had their little niches that they hung out in, despite the fact that the hockey team didn't employ more than eleven players on the ice at a time, and nineteen in total. As Booth walks in, preparing to just book it out of there when he could, maybe give a halfhearted endgame speech, he pauses when he sees Wendell sitting alone on a bench, staring off relatively just into space, his eyes unfocused. It's a very stereotypical expression post-concussion, that much Booth knows, not only from playing hockey, but also from his Army stint and that at the FBI.

With a small grin, Booth goes over to the tub of ice in the room and fills up two Ziplocs with a good amount of it, pressing one against his wrist which he's ninety-eight percent sure is broken. Then, fully aware that it might make Wendell a bit uncomfortable, Booth sits down next to him, pulling off his jersey and unlacing his skates, his own body grumbling at the hits it'd taken. Wendell snaps out of his brief funk to look over to his right, frowning when he sees Booth (or, rather, two of Booth), like he hadn't ever expected the agent to pay attention to him besides just giving out the lineup.

Booth hands Wendell the other icepack, with an apologetic but par-for-the-course smile. "Here," he says. "Put this on your head. It'll help."

Wendell looks at him for a minute before capitulating and taking the bag, pressing it to his scalp, which, Booth catches before the bag covers it, is coated with blood. It riles his mood up more against Carlson, just the fact that he'd caused one of his guys to spare blood that wasn't Carlson's to spare. Yet, Booth does suspect that Wendell's not as bothered by it as Booth is; that he's been in worse scrapes than this current one.

"You played a good game," says Booth, unsticking his undershirt from his chest.

Wendell snorts self-deprecatingly. "I benched myself for a quarter of it," he replies, adjusting the icepack.

"Hey," Booth says sharply, hitting Wendell's shoulder to get him to look at him. Wendell does, a little indignantly. "Stop it. Everyone has off games. It's not your fault that Carlson's a cheating bastard."

Wendell shakes his head for a second before deciding that's a very _bad_ idea, and he settles for a glare that does virtually the same thing. "It's not Carlson," he negates. "Okay, maybe a little, but I should've seen him coming. I was too focused on the goal—"

"That stubbornness might get you brownie points with the squints," Booth interrupts sharply, gesturing vaguely in the direction of where Brennan, Cam, and Sweets were to exit the arena. "But in here? You acknowledge your strengths, and you don't dwell on your mistakes. You're a good player, Bray, and what happened out there was an underpaid ref and an underhanded guy who has nothing better to do than commit fouls and sideline my best players."

Wendell looks up at the last bit, his eyebrows raised (barring the left one, which was starting already to be obscured by a sizable shiner). "You actually giving out compliments, Agent Booth?"

Booth grants Wendell a half-smile. "Don't get used to it, rookie," he says with a tone lacking the venom of his words. He takes another look at Wendell's head, starting to feel worry despite himself. He shrugs it off as just general concern for a member of his unit. Kinda. "You still seeing double?" he asks gruffly.

"Only when I open more'n one eye," Wendell responds with a wince and a husky chuckle. He glances over at Booth, whose arm is a little blurry still, and notices the off-angle that his wrist is at. It doesn't take his bachelor's in anthropology to figure out that it's broken. "Your hand's busted," he comments unnecessarily.

Booth grunts, peeking at it underneath the ice pack he'd loosely put on. "Yeah, well, you know…guy left his helmet on."

It's the flimsiest of flimsy excuses, both Booth and Wendell know that, but neither make a jab about it. It's part of the guy code, after all; there's a line as to when you make fun of someone and when you don't. Well, that and Wendell's pretty damn sure Booth could kill and/or maim him fifty different ways. He's picking his battles, thank you very much. So, all Wendell does is laugh again, he and Booth sharing an indulgent smile. A kind of in the trenches, temporary same-level standing.

And it's all going just fine until the locker room door opens, and Wendell and Booth look up to see none other than Brennan, decked out in her beanie and jacket, an expression of concern on her face. Both men have looks of shock and incredulity on their faces, and maybe a touch of embarrassment as well. It's not as if the locker room is completely empty, after all.

"Hey, you two all right?" Brennan asks, then amends as she sees their horrification, "What?"

"You wanna wait outside?" Booth inquires stiffly, suddenly uncomfortable in his shirtlessness, and wishing he'd waited, like Wendell, to undress. Though, Wendell did have a reason to avoid undressing just yet, given the situation of his concussion and head wound. Which, both men knew, bled like a bitch.

"But your hand might be broken," Brennan persists. No one ever accused her of being less than straightforward. Booth shakes his head quickly. "You want me to take a look at it?"

Booth glares at her. "No, it's all right. You can wait outside, please," he says awkwardly. Then, in a slightly whinier voice, he pleads, "It's the men's locker room, Bones."

Finally, _finally_, Brennan seems to get the hint, and shuts the door, leaving Wendell and Booth to steadfastly avoid the looks they know the other guys are aiming at them, and look at each other instead, cringing. They appreciate Brennan's worry, truly they do, but there's a point at which enough becomes enough. And Brennan had just crossed that. More than that, she'd rather jauntily _sprinted_ across the line, and danced to "Up, Up, and Away" with mocking jubilance.

Exchanging an uneasy glance, and then a chuckle, Wendell and Booth go back to icing their respective injuries, both feeling an odd sense of bonding. The oddest part being, of course, that it was over Brennan making a complete fool of them, though then again, no matter what Booth made constant objections to, none of their lives were exactly normal. But for his left-winger, who proved his value to the team in more ways than one, Booth's pretty sure he wouldn't have it any other way.

Not that he'd say any of that out loud. No chick flick moments for him, oh no. He has a reputation to protect.


	5. Dr Temperance Brennan

A/N: You all knew Brennan had to come in sometime! Anyway, feedback's appreciated.

* * *

**It's All Psychology to Me**

_**Chapter V: Dr. Temperance Brennan

* * *

**_

**"****I don't expect anyone to live up to Zack's standards, Mr. Bray, but that is extremely good work."**

It's Christmas, and Temperance Brennan is in a sullen mood, as she always is this time of year. Last year was actually okay, given that Caroline had really stepped up and gotten that conjugal trailer (even though the deal was a little steep, if, Brennan admitted, not too unpleasant) and Booth and Parker had shown up with a tree for her. But this year, Caroline hadn't been able to finagle it—plus, Brennan doesn't really want to even think of what the deal would have been to get the trailer again—Booth was going to his parents' house over in Green Bay, and everyone else had family stuff they had already arranged.

They'd vehemently suggested she come along, and she knows they wouldn't mind, but she'd still feel like she was intruding nonetheless. And besides, all the Christmas cheer with other people's families would only remind her of the holiday she _wouldn't_ be having with _her_ family, and wouldn't that just be the biggest downer since Santa got killed.

So, as per many Christmases before, she's stuck in the lab, going over some bones of a thousand-year-old man, trying to piece together what she can about him. It isn't easy, either; they don't call it Limbo for no reason, after all. But she's vigilant, the remains splayed across a backlit table as she studies x-rays and tool marks, drawing from all her expansive knowledge to see what she can discern, all the while trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her gut of her glaring aloneness.

But even Brennan isn't immune to basic bodily functions, so at about quarter after four in the morning (_On Christmas Day_, she thinks cynically), she decides to succumb to her stomach's protestations, grabs her coat, and walks out of the lab. There aren't many places open at this time of morning, save for seedy bars and such, but the diner that she and her friends frequent is available twenty-four hours a day, and it's a good a place as any, so she sets her sights there.

She welcomes the warmth of the diner from the frigid air of winter in D.C., and gives a small smile to the bartender, who knows her pretty well by now. Walking towards the table she usually occupies, she's halted by a voice that she's vaguely familiar with.

"Dr. Brennan?" he asks, and she looks down to see what she had dubbed her most promising intern, sitting alone but having made an obvious sizable dent in his meal.

"Wendell," she greets, recognizing the twenty-something with less annoyance, she finds, than most of her other ones. She recalls what Booth had said a few weeks ago, about Wendell being "somewhat normal," and decides it's actually rather true. "You're out late."

He chuckles self-deprecatingly, taking a sip of the beer he had set beside him. "Didn't have much going on," he answers. Then, gesturing across from him and in a voice that she cites as partly shy and partly gracious, he offers, "You can sit down if you want."

Brennan hesitates, glancing towards her table, and then around the rest of the diner, where there's only a smattering of people. She tends to like to be by herself unless there's someone she knows well, but, she considers, what could it hurt? It isn't like she anticipates Wendell reverting to uncharacteristic weirdness like Nigel-Murray, nor depression like Fisher. Moreover, he's dressed just as casually as a non-intern, jeans and a jacket, accompanied by your basic Heineken and a burger. Had she not known he is a medical grad student, she would have placed him as a run-of-the-mill kid in his early twenties.

So, giving it a shot, she shrugs her shoulders and takes a seat on the opposite booth. "Sure," she says. "Why not."

Catching the bartender-slash-waiter's eye, she orders her usual, and waits for the awkwardness to ensue. Come to think of it, she'd never just hung out with one of her interns; she excluded Zack in that, given the acumen had been her grad student for years, quickly becoming integrated into their group, and Wendell had only been her grad student for…well, Brennan isn't quite sure, apart from that it hasn't been too long.

However, just as he is with his medical personality, he steps up. "Alone for Christmas, Dr. Brennan?" he inquires, taking another drag from his beer. "Would have thought you'd be with lots of people to celebrate the holiday."

Brennan thinks of giving a flippant response of some kind, but she just doesn't have the energy. "No," she admits, "they're all doing family stuff, and my family is—"

She stops, clearing her throat instead of finishing her sentence. "Everyone's got their closet skeletons," Wendell says, qualifying her, before registering what he'd said. "No pun intended."

Brennan quirks a smile, and takes off her heavy coat. "Yeah, well," she says eloquently. "So what about you? You've got to have relatives to spend Christmas with."

It's Wendell's turn to sober up, and he pushes a fry around on his plate. Brennan, characteristically not one to empathize, feels she had just, what was the phrase? Put her foot in her mouth. "Sorry, I presumed," she apologizes, rethinking that the company wouldn't be awkward.

"It's okay, Dr. Brennan," Wendell says after a moment. "My parents are…not around, and my little sister's with one of our friends back in Baltimore. I had some stuff to do here, couldn't see her."

Brennan's dinner—breakfast?—comes, buying a little time in matters of discomfort, her salad and beer distracting for a minute or so. But Brennan's never been a roundabout kind of woman, no matter how difficult the circumstance. She'd been to Rwanda and Iraq, for Christ's sake. She can handle a bit of drama.

"Do you always spend Christmas alone?" she asks, jumping in headfirst and watching Wendell's face.

"I like you, Dr. Brennan," Wendell begins, "but with all due respect, I'd rather not talk about it."

She's known for gleaning information from people through whatever avenue necessary, but the way Wendell's face is closed off, it's plain to see that he's not going to be divulging anything anytime soon. "You know, Hodgins once gave Angela a framed picture of toxic mold," Brennan volunteers, thinking of that one memorable holiday a few years back.

Wendell chokes for a second on his beer before setting it down, cough-laughing. "Toxic mold? That does sound like the guy."

"You say that like you know him," Brennan notes curiously.

"If you look hard enough, everyone wears their heart on their sleeves," Wendell replies. Brennan raises her eyebrows in dubiety. "It's true," he protests. "You get pretty good at it when you live a tough life, when you have to make snap judgments about people."

Ask her friends, and they'd have to admit that Brennan doesn't read people very well, but at least in theory, she gets Wendell's gist. "You're not wrong," she agrees reluctantly, her long stint in the foster care system attesting with a growl to that.

"I guess you know what I'm talking about, though," Wendell ponders aloud, but at Brennan's quick glance up, he has the good grace to look ashamed. "Sorry. I heard Angela and Dr. Hodgins say something about it a while ago. This place is pretty much _General Hospital_."

"I don't know what that is," Brennan replies, guessing Wendell was referring to some sort of book or TV show or something that she'd never heard reference to before. Wendell looks surprised for a minute, before showing obvious attempting-to-hold-back amusement; Brennan has the shrewd suspicion that Wendell had been told about her pop culture deficiency in addition to her unsavory past. "But I will need to have a talk with Angela and Hodgins."

Wendell shakes his head, putting down the fry he'd been about to consume. "It's not their fault, Dr. Brennan," he says defensively. "And for having, forgive me, a crappy formative life, you seem to have turned out okay."

Brennan laughs. "Shameless flattery, Mr. Bray," she comments. "Oldest trick in the book, isn't it?"

"Is it working?" Wendell asks guilefully, in the same tone that Angela had said he took on when he stole a fluoroscopy machine. The tone of voice that she can't help but attribute to being able to wheedle anything out of a fieldwork suspect. She tries to ignore that train of thought, tries to remain objective about her interns, none of whom she'd yet come to a complete decision about.

"A little," Brennan admits, giving that one to Wendell. She'd go so far as to say, as yet, Wendell had proven the most audacious of her grad students. "So you know about my past then," she continues uncomfortably. "How much?"

"Just the foster care stuff," Wendell says, uneasy. "That's it."

Brennan sighs, wondering not for the first time just how the hell all of her past had gotten out. She'd told Booth because she wanted his opinion on the case (and he was her partner, after all), and of course the rest of her team once they all got familiar enough with each other, but apart from that…it isn't exactly something she wants advertised.

And while she wants to find it hard to believe that Angela and Hodgins would just be chatting about it in the lab proper, she isn't so naïve as to think that often interns would be so dime a dozen that they weren't really noticeable. Or, possibly more likely, Wendell had simply gotten curious as to his boss's unique personality. Either way, though, there isn't any use ruminating on it now. Wendell knows, and she can't do anything about it.

"Angela told me about why you need this job," Brennan says, spearing a tomato. "About the people you need to repay for medical school."

Wendell looks down, seemingly upset about his roots, but Brennan hadn't failed to notice the look of fire in the young intern's blue eyes, the type of fire that came with standing one's ground, sticking by one's choices. "Is that a bad thing, Dr. Brennan?" Wendell asks, finally looking up at her.

And as Wendell meets her gaze, Brennan is surprised to see how…_young_ he appears. Sure, she's aware that he's only, what (she tries to recall the sheets that came with their applications), twenty-three, but he'd always looked secure with himself, trying and succeeding to appear older than he is, regardless of what he says about not knowing about Zack, evidently trying to fill those shoes. But now, as Wendell the Intern fades away into Wendell the Kid, Brennan feels a kind of regret seep over her, a kind of pity. No, not quite pity—Brennan despises pity almost as much as she does psychology—but more…sympathy.

Most people aren't able to really comprehend what Brennan had gone through with her parents and brother and everything, except perhaps Booth, but as she really sorts out what Wendell had told her, maybe, she thinks, he could have an insight as well. His father dead, his mother gone, his sister away, rough town upbringing…it comes to Brennan as a shock that this kid could be a mini version, if a remake of sorts, of herself.

Okay, maybe not, but she _can_ see resemblances, nonetheless.

"It's admirable, Wendell," Brennan says sincerely, thinking that this was the kind of situation where someone would pat Wendell's arm or something. But Brennan isn't comfortable with things like that, so she settles for a smile.

Wendell nods slowly, visibly working through Brennan's responses. Brennan wonders if Wendell's always done this, sorting through people's actions and replies, or if he's just done it with her, or if this is something new. She's a little perturbed when she realizes she really doesn't know which it is; for a world-renowned forensic anthropologist, acclaimed for her attention to detail, hadn't even noticed what should have been an elementary level observation. She doesn't think she's getting off her game at all, but all the same...

"Wendell," Brennan starts, mulling over her thoughts. "Why is it you want to work for me?"

Wendell waits, like Brennan's going to insert an addendum to her question. When she doesn't, just looks at him curiously, he frowns. "Is this some sort of test, Dr. Brennan?" Wendell inquires, looking not unlike a high schooler forgetting the occurrence of a trig quiz. "'Cause I don't think—"

"Not a test, Mr. Bray," Brennan interrupts quickly. "Just a question."

Wendell relaxes, and finishes his beer; it's only a few seconds before the bartender walks over and drops off a new one. "Well, it's the Jeffersonian," Wendell hedges, gauging Brennan's reaction. "And you're the best anthropologist in the U.S.…"

Brennan sighs quietly; Wendell's response was expected, and the way Brennan had phrased it qualified his answer, yet it wasn't quite what she'd been going for. Not that she really knows _what_ she'd been going for. Just…something other than what she'd been told a million and one times. It's not like she doesn't appreciate praise—she does, as much as the next person—but sometimes it just isn't what she wants to hear.

"I know that," Brennan says plainly, absently drawing invisible, gibberish designs with her finger on the tabletop. "But sometimes…"

Wendell's looking at her like he's enraptured by whatever she's going to say next, like it doesn't matter what comes out of her mouth. "What?" he asks, his question so innocent that Brennan feels a little gratified.

"Sometimes I feel that's all I have to offer," she confides, simultaneously wondering what the holy hell she's telling _Wendell_ for. This is like…Booth territory that she's confiding. Not _Wendell_. Not her _grad student_. And yet…there's just something about him that Brennan sees when she looks in his eyes, some kind of understanding.

Appropriately, Wendell becomes some degree of uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat and wishing there were some fries left that he could stall for time with. The situation reminds him unwillingly of when Brennan had asked him if he'd ever had sex with an older woman, the query then completely anthropological and straightforward. The difference now, unfortunately in his opinion, is that Brennan actually _wants_ his input. Wants him to say something that'll set her mind at ease, yet it's causing Wendell's to be completely the opposite.

He tries to change perspective, to envision her as not the renowned doctor-slash-author-slash-boss, but rather just a thirty-two year old woman requesting a younger colleague's—or maybe friend…yes, he's pretty sure that would be even easier—take on a problem. But despite all his efforts, he simply can't. He recognizes fully that she's in a rare, but true as toast vulnerable state, and it's unnerving him a bit. He'd be okay with it, were it anyone else, were Brennan not so prone to changing condition at the drop of a hat. Put simply, he's afraid that if he says the wrong thing, commits a semantic faux pas, then she'll revert into her clinical and detached self, pretending stubbornly that it all never happened. And then what? Wendell would feel like a complete asshole, not to mention even _more_ awkward than he already is. He's at a crossroads, and feels like both roads would lead to a certain, drawn out death.

Still, he didn't get this far, didn't get all the way to the freakin' Jeffersonian to study under Temperance Brennan for being a wussy. Clearing his throat, he goes for it. "I can't really say I'm great at these sorts of things," he starts, wincing at his _Grey's Anatomy_-esque bad wording. On the contrary, true to what Wendell had feared, he can already see Brennan shutting down. Hurriedly, he continues, "But, um, I don't think your work is all you offer. I don't."

Brennan's skeptical, Wendell can see that broadcasted over her face, and his already meager hope for success incinerating into a smoking pile of ash. She opens her mouth to say something along the realm of impersonal, but on her intern's expressional countenance, she pauses. It's not a secret to her that she's both extremely forward and clueless at the same time, but in this instance she's sure, to a percentage that Zack would be content with, that Wendell's on the brink of fearing he'd done something wrong.

The thing is, Brennan realizes, he hadn't. In point of fact, the simplicity and stammering of his negation was all she'd been hoping for. Maybe, she further allows with a jolt, that was the exact reason she'd even asked Wendell in the first place. She knew he wouldn't give her a long, fructose-coated speech, like Angela and even Booth would; he wouldn't avoid it either, like Hodgins; and he wouldn't quantify it, like Zack would. She often compared Wendell to the others, tried to fit him into one of their boxes, but the verity was, he didn't fit. Not precisely, anyway.

Just like she'd fashioned those categories for each of the members of her team, Wendell warranted one of his own. And since she knows just what her friends would say to her, she'd wanted to try out a new perspective, one she knows not a whole lot about. Now that she has, however, she puts it in the back of her mind that, should she ever want a full-fledged ego soother, Wendell's not the one to approach. But, like in this instance, if she ever wants a barebones reassurance, he just may be.

"Thank you," she replies simply, meeting Wendell's eye line.

Wendell lets out an audible—though Brennan graciously pretends she hadn't noticed—sigh of relief, and takes a few gulps of his beer to reinforce it. The few seconds it'd taken Brennan to respond to him had seemed like much longer, but once she'd taken Wendell's answer as-is, moreover still possessing that little girl-like openness, his perception of real time returned. He's quite thankful for that.

"You know," Brennan says, breaking the not altogether intolerable silence, "this hasn't been a half-bad Christmas, Mr. Bray."

Wendell turns from the window he'd been staring out of to look at her. "Yeah?" he asks, and indicates with his hand the fry plate with leftover salt and smears of ketchup, as well as the four bottles of beer that he and Brennan had accrued, two of them containing only remnants of foam on the bottom. "Not sure it really compares with _It's a Wonderful Life_."

He waits for her proverbial frown, cocked head, and proclamation that she's no idea what he's talking about, but it doesn't come. Instead, she smiles in reminiscence. "Used to love that movie when I was a kid," she replies, thinking back to one of the few and far between good memories of her life pre-anthropology. "I'd always go out and find some flower petals and gave them to my mom. I didn't understand why she was so pleased with them, but I guess it was just one of those parent things."

Wendell laughs, getting her point. Not that _he'd_ gone and reenacted Zuzu, but he can see the sentiment behind it, even if Brennan doesn't. "Well, you know, no man is a is a failure without friends," he recites with a shrewd grin. Then, as he recalls what he'd said, he amends, "Well, woman, I guess. And not that we're _friends_, but—"

Brennan chuckles, halting his flustering, and holds up her near-empty bottle of beer. "Merry Christmas, Wendell," she says.

Wendell nods, clinking his bottle with hers. "Merry Christmas, Dr. Brennan."


End file.
